Severus Black Label
by Madame Oubliette
Summary: Hogwarts resident Potions Master decides to cast off his fusty old image and play cupid. Trouble is, 'nice' really isn't in the vocabularly of a Slythie. One Shot comedy.


Black Label

Snape looked up from his breakfast plate, frowning with contempt as a surge of owls flew into the Great Hall, bedecked with pastel coloured packages. He frowned again, just because he could, and he thought it fitting for the Head of Slytherin to be seen scorning such sentimental claptrap. Valentines Day, pah! If he had it his way there would be no celebration of such foolish Muggle nonsense at Hogwarts – and he'd cancel Christmas too while he was at it. Unfortunately, that decision did not lie with him, it lay instead with the sickeningly cheerful Wizard on his left, who was currently sporting pink gingham robes in honour of the occasion.

"Honestly, Severus, if you really are intent on curdling the breakfast milk, I suggest you make use of your wand, rather than your face. It's Valentines Day, a time of laughter, joy, and, dare I say it," Dumbledore leaned conspiratorially close to Snape, whispering in his ear, "love."

Snape stiffened, "I can assure you, that the only day that holds the promise of any of those gifts is the last day of term. As it is, I find myself sitting here, trying to eat my breakfast amidst these ridiculous decorations," He gestured loosely at the red balloons and twisted crepe paper festoons above his head, "Contemplating the thoroughly unenjoyable prospect of a student-teacher Quidditch match."

"Perhaps the morning post will deliver something to cheer your mind." Dumbledore twinkled, as they were both forced to duck under a wobbling barn owl.

Snape was about to answer back, when he noticed that the tatty looking creature was standing expectantly in front of him. He tried to shoo it away with his arm, but it remained nonplussed, large yellow eyes regarding him stupidly from its squashed face.

"Go on, away with you!" By now his frantic gestures had started to attract the attention of some of the Gryffindor students, and word was quickly spreading throughout the hall that Snape seemed to have received a Valentine's card.

"I think you're meant to untie the parcel from his leg." Dumbledore said helpfully, trying to hide his amusement behind his beard.

"I am well aware of the protocol for receiving mail." Snape hissed, as he began testing the age-old theory that birds of a prey do not like Rice Kripsies. "I believe that this thing has become disorientated." He prodded it cautiously with the end of his spoon, causing it to let out an indignant hoot.

"Or possibly carries some post addressed to the Potions Master of Hogwarts?" Dumbledore said genially, finally taking the bird out of it misery by untying the parcel attached to its scrawny leg, and handing it over to Snape. The owl hooted gratefully, before flying off again with indecent haste, shaking breakfast cereal crumbs out of its feathers irritably. By now, half the student population were looking up at the High Table expectantly, scenting trouble.

Snape handled the small brown parcel cautiously between his hands, noting with revulsion the hopelessly asymmetrical pink heart felt-tip penned messily on the top.

"Well, are you going to open it or enter it for the Turner prize?" Dumbledore prompted, impatient at the younger man's drawn-out examination.

Snape untied the string, straightening out the kinks as he placed the discarded binding meticulously beside the water jug. He then turned the small package over carefully and lifted up the sellotaped flap, peeling back the brown packing paper. Inside was a small green box that Snape turned around until he found the opening. Pressing down on the catch he opened it to reveal…

"A matchbox? And who said romance was dead…" Dumbledore tutted, looking at the box's contents with dismay, before noticing a small slip of paper that had fallen onto the table. He handed it wordlessly to Snape.

"Dearest Professor Snape, thought we might save Hogwarts the trouble, and provide the matchbox your remains are going to be sent home in. Yours sincerely, the student Quidditch team." Snape read aloud, an ugly expression clouding his face as the Great Hall erupted in laughter. "Well happy bloody Valentine's day to me." he muttered to himself, unheard amidst the uproar.

His general mood had not improved much as he sat hovering on a broomstick above the Quidditch pitch, waiting for Madame Hooch to blow the starting whistle. He eyed up the competition warily, making mental notes of who to aim bludgers at and who to avoid. Of the three chasers, Johnson looked liked the one to avoid, an aggressive determination etched across her face, but Davies and Smith appeared to be more intimidated of the competition, than actually intimidating. Snape caught Davies' eye and growled menacingly. However, as he was playing the position of beater, it was really the bulky forms of Crabbe and Goyle that he had to worry about. Providing he didn't get too carried away belting a record-breaking amount of bludgers at Harry Potter's delightful head, that was. 'Come on, focus Sevvie,' he scolded himself, trying to ignore the way Harry's face suddenly seemed to split into a tri-colour of concentric rings, his nose replaced by a tempting bulls-eye.

The whistle rang, and he charged forward. Goyle beat him to it. He woke up in the infirmary ten minutes later, as cold water from the ice compress ran down his face. Oh dear, getting knocked out like a Hufflepuff pansy within the first ten seconds did not bode well for his carefully cultivated antichrist image. He would have to really bulk up his inventory of sarcastic comments if he was to live this one down. He heard someone enter the infirmary and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to delay the inevitable crowing for as long as possible.

"Oh look at you, all bandaged up! Are you alright?"

Snape heard a female voice exclaim to his left, which he vaguely recognised as belonging to Miss Granger. So, he thought with a grimace – or was that a grin? hard to tell with this Potions Master – it seemed that he was not the only injured party. Well good, but he only wished he had the satisfaction of hearing Potter's voice answer back, instead of the unmistakably nasal whine of a Weasley.

"I'm fine Hermione, nothing a bit of T.L.C. won't clear up…"

Snape cringed to the bottom of his toes as he heard the unmistakable sound of rustling bedding being stripped back, and the protesting ping of old bed springs. Good God he had seen some sights in his service to Voldemort, but never had he been subjected to the horror of witnessing a ginger and a dentally challenged student making out. He tried to think happy thoughts. Sirius Black in a mangler. Neutral thoughts. Rubik's cubes. Unsexy thoughts. Hagrid cutting his toe nails. Anything that diverted his attention from the amorous couple next to him.

"hmmm nnnn mmmlllnm."

Snape listened to the mounting noise with disgust, finally making his mind up to abandon his cover of supposed concussion, and take enough House points off Gryffindor to confidently ensure that they would not be winning the House trophy for the next century. He was just recovering his wand from the bedside cabinet, when Hermione mercifully broke off.

"This is not a snogging competition Ron!" she squeaked, as Snape heard the unmistakable undertone of severe female pissed-offness. Judging from Weasley's abysmal Potions work, he doubted whether the young man possessed the finely tuned senses necessary to detect such subtle distinctions, so sank back into his pillows with a smirk on his face. This was going to be good; Gryffindor histrionics always were. You could say what you liked about Gryffindors – and he often did – but their women sure knew how to fight, excelling particularly well in what he colloquially referred to as the screaming fishwife approach. Slytherin confrontations were all in the comeback, the subtle dance of witty retort that may have been thought up weeks in advance and reserved for just such an outing. Gryffindor… well, there was something wholly entertaining about their primal baseness.

"Aw come on 'Mione, don't be a spoilsport. I'm your Quidditch hero, if I hadn't saved that belter from Flitwick then they'd have been the ones lifting the trophy. And I shudder to think what form their celebration would have taken," He paused for effect, unaware that Snape was shuddering in tandem behind the infirmary screen, but under the effects of memory, rather than wild imagination. "So park yourself down here, my love, and give me the welcoming I deserve."

Snape cringed. Ooh, this was going to be a Versuvias alright, he could practically feel the girl's hair prickling – perhaps not such an intangible thing after all, considering its state. He had once insulted Granger's teeth, something he deeply regretted – he should have gone for the jugular and mentioned her hair. He sighed to himself; the gift of foresight was indeed an elusive one.

"You Neanderthal! I am not just some piece of Barbie fluff!" she shrieked, immediately following the declaration with a well-aimed slap. Damn, was that something McGonagall taught all incoming female Gryffindors, Snape wondered idly to himself. Absolutely no breeding, he sniffed airily. If that had been one of his young charges, he would have felt ashamed if they had used anything less than a full body bind hex. Evidently though, these Muggle tactics were just as effective, as he heard Weasley let out a strangled yelp.

"What was that for?" he whined.

"You need to ask? Ronald Weasley, you are just impossible!"

Snape winced as the rapid patter of feet was immediately followed by a slamming door. God his head hurt.

Potions lessons that afternoon were unbearable, as his head throbbed painfully. Despite placing an outright ban on even mention of the word 'Quidditch', his students seemed perfectly adept at finding other ways to portray their victorious feelings and Snape's short-lived career on the pitch. Finnigan repeatedly asked Snape whether each instructional step on the board required ten-second stirring intervals, while even Malfoy let the side down somewhat by whistling 'The Final Countdown' – although that would have earned him the resultant hexing from both Snape and his fellow students any day of the week. It was dark magic indeed that had gone into the crafting of that song, dark magic indeed.

Snape surveyed the class oppressively, glad to see that they had finally settled down. His eyes lingered on Potter for a second and he scowled - because that's what ex-Death Eaters of dubious loyalty should do - before his gaze roved back out to the window again. He leaned back on his chair and sighed, suddenly feeling very old. He had taught at this place for too long, endured too many hormone-filled days like today, and he felt as though his dignity was being slowly tapped away. He had the strange compulsion to laugh. He quickly snuffed it – that would really get the white coats coming for him. Sometimes it was so hard conforming to this constant stereotype. He had thought it protective at first, yet now he found it jarringly constraining. So what if he chose to be nice to his pupils, would the world end? He tried it out, flashing Bones a grin when she looked up in his direction. She screamed and dropped the vial in her hand, smashing it into fine crystals on the floor.

The Potions classroom was off limits for the rest of the day, as he cleared up the strange effects of a half-completed swelling potion. Right, that was it. He was going to do something of immense kindness to prove to the world that he could do nice guy.

He thought for a moment.

Whilst wanton arson to Dumbledore's dress robes may have been considered by many as a kind act of euthanasia, he doubted whether that could be classified as a truly selfless act. And then he hit on it. He would play cupid! He would personally ensure that Ron Weasley, Hogwart's ginger lothario, would buck the discriminatory Hollywood stereotype and get the girl.

Excited by the idea he rushed to his desk, sucking the end of his quill as he began to whizz through the potential possibilities in his head. 'Roses are red, violets are blue, I think you're cute…' no, too commercial. Song lyrics? He thought hard, but was still unable to focus on anything beyond the chorus to 'The Final Countdown', which was still circulating infuriatingly around his head. Adolescents, what did they like? He had to confess to himself; he had no idea. He had never been one himself. Resigning himself to plagiarism, he began making a mental list of suitable poets, deciding to rely on the universal appeal of Shakespeare – after all, in the Muggle world, all pupils of G.C.S.E age loved Shakespeare, didn't they? Now, a nice sonnet would do nicely. Trouble was, he only knew one sonnet, sonnet 130. Oh well, it was Shakespeare, it was a love sonnet, it was not as if anyone ever read the damn things, or bothered to understand the funny-looking words. It was the thought that counted. He set pen to paper; a man on a mission, a Slytherin ambition. He congratulated himself on the unintended rhyme.

Hermione was just about to leave the table in the Great Hall, her evening appetite well and truly sated, when a large school owl landed clumsily on the table in front of her. Why, it had a little note attached to its leg, and it was addressed to her. She reached forward and untied it with a degree of foreboding, sure that she had never seen an owl delivering post at this time of day before. Snape watched her reaction closely from the High Table, mentally urging her on.

She unfolded the parchment slowly, eyes flicking rapidly across the text. She put the note down, then, reconsidering her action, picked it up and read it through once more. Snape was practically leaning forward in his seat now, anticipating her joyful reaction. If this went well, then he promised that he would do his utmost to bring similar joy to as many people as he could. He would throw off his oppressive classroom manner, he would be nice to Hufflepuffs, damn, he might even wear a green necktie. So he watched excitedly as Hermione stood up, and wandered over to Ron.

"YOU BASTARD!" she shrieked, throwing the note onto his plate and folding her arms confrontationally, as she waited for her boyfriend to answer the charge.

"What's this all about?" Harry hissed to Ron, trying to be discrete as every ear in the vicinity strained to get the scoop first-hand.

"No idea, mate." Ron groaned, picking up the sodden note and wiping the gravy off as best he could with the sleeve of his robe. He frowned as he peered at the unfamiliar script:

'_Dearest Hermione Granger,_

_I sincerely apologise for my earlier oafish behaviour. I know I can act like a total arse at times, particularly in Potions lessons,_ _but sometimes I find articulacy difficult to obtain. Therefore, allow me the liberty of borrowing a few words from our greatest bard, William Shakespeare:_

_My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;_

_Coral is far more red than her lips' red;_

_If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_

_If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head._

_I have seen roses damasked, red and white,_

_But no such roses see I in her cheeks,_

_And in some perfumes is there more delight_

_Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks._

_I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,_

_That music hath a far more pleasing sound._

_I grant I never saw a goddess go;_

_My mistress when she walks treads on the ground._

_And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare_

_As any she belied with false compare._

_Hope that the above conveys to you something of what I feel._

_Yours,_

_Ronald Weasley'_

"That your idea of a joke? 'Least I know where I really stand now. How could you dump me on Valentine's day!" Lavender Brown, along with every other female in the Great Hall, let out a shocked gasp at Hermione's words.

Unseen among the commotion, Snape banged his head against the table with a resounding thunk. Admittedly, he had rather thought that the role of Cupid may have been more suited to Hufflepuff stock, but was the Slytherin touch really that poisonous? It was sodding Shakespeare, poetry by numbers, how could you go wrong with that? But evidently he had, or otherwise Granger would not currently be pouring Pumpkin juice over Weasley's head. He frowned, weighing his wand carefully in his hand. Now, this could go two ways. He could carry on dancing in the light of his quasi-religious conversion, singing along to the tune of sunshine, lollipops, and candy canes. Or he could stick to what he knew. He raised his wand uncertainly. Redemption or regression – it was all down to this next moment in time. He would take…

"TWENTY POINTS OFF GRYFFINDOR!" he yelled, making his way toward the offending section of the Gryffindor table. "I will not tolerate foolish feuds and hormonal angst!"

Well, once a Slythie, always a Slythie.

A/N: this was written many moons ago in response to a fanfic challenge, which at least partly accounts for the randomness (the rest is all my fault). I forget the exact requirements of the challenge, but they seemed to involve a student-teacher Quidditch match, Snape receiving a Valentine's Day card, and something about a matchbox. Anyway, found it slightly amusing when sorting through my computer files. If you liked it please comment as I am considering writing a whole fanfic based along the lines of comedy!Snape, just for kicks.

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